Day 569

Your brother has lost both his arms.
One closer to the shoulder
than the other.  He is so thin
you can see all his ribs.
You remember how, when
he was little, you’d
pick him up when he stretched
both his arms to ask you, before
he knew how to ask you in words.
You remember the first time
he caught a ball you threw
for him, a big ball, light enough
for him to carry, his arms
reaching all the way
around it.  Every night now
you cry for him, though your father
has told you, Don’t cry, we’re lucky
your brother is still alive!  But you
want your brother back
with his arms, the brother
who put his hand in yours
when he was afraid, the brother
who drew horses and rainbows
for you when you were sick,
the brother who learned
to throw a ball far, farther away
than the look in his eyes,
than whatever he cries out at in his dreams.